


Wolfpack

by sowell



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: spnspringfling, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 10:47:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sowell/pseuds/sowell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for mimblexwimble for the prompt "we've met before."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wolfpack

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mimblexwimble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimblexwimble/gifts).



When Gordon was ten years old, he used to sneak scraps off his dinner plate to feed to the neighborhood stray. The mutt didn’t have a name; its bones poked up under its skin when it slunk across the yard, and its splotchy fur was laced with fleas. Gordon’s mom always wrinkled her nose and skirted around it on the street, but Gordon got a secret thrill when he saw it waiting for him around the block. It would patiently sit on its skinny haunches while Gordon tossed leftovers at its paws. It never barked or wagged its tail, but it would look up with an unwavering gaze as Gordon broke off the next bit, and Gordon always had the funny feeling they were having a conversation of sorts.  
  
One Sunday afternoon, between the end of church and the start of dinner, Gordon’s father called him out to the woodshed. He had the mutt trapped there, snarling from ten feet away, cornered in the back end of the shed. There was white foam dripping from its muzzle, and its eyes were bloodshot and wrathful. It was crouched and growling, all its hackles raised.  
  
His father had a rifle trained on it, steady and unafraid, even though Gordon was shaking. He wanted to back away, all the way back into the kitchen, until there were walls and grass and yards of space between him and the gun and the mutt.  
  
“You see that?” his father asked, never relaxing his aim. “That mutt is rabid. You ever see an animal look like that, you run and get help. Do you understand?”  
  
Gordon swallowed. “Is it…is it sick?”  
  
“It’s sick, and very, very dangerous. You see that white foam?”  
  
“Yeah,” Gordon managed.  
  
“That means that dog will attack you as soon as look at you.”  
  
“But…it will get better, right? We can call the vet…”  
  
“No,” his father said firmly. “A dog never gets better from this. It’s rabid, and it has to be put down before it hurts someone.”  
  
It was hard to breathe, and Gordon shook his head back and forth. “My teacher said sick animals get better. She said…”  
  
“Go on back in the house,” his dad said, calm and low. “Now you know what to look for – go be with your mother and your sister.”  
  
The dog might be sick, but Gordon had fed it, every day for two years. It had sat there, patient and gentle, while Gordon held out his hand. There was no way it would attack him now. “No. It’s okay. Dad, It won’t bite me. It’s nice. It’s…” And he took a step forward.  
  
And his father shot a hand out to hold him back, and the gun lowered, and the dog lunged. Then a shout and a crack, and the dog was on the ground, blood running into the foam around its mouth. The gun was smoking, and the mutt’s limbs were twitching like it was still alive, but that was impossible, because its skull was half gone, sliding down the rough-hewn walls.  
  
And Gordon was screaming, and he kept screaming for a long time.  
  
“I love you, but you’re rabid,” he told his sister twenty years later. “And you have to be put down before you hurt someone.” There had been tears sliding down her cheeks when he cut her head off, and it had just looked like blood to him.  
  
Purgatory was a playground for rabid animals, and Gordon put them down steadily, one by one. He wasn’t so stupid that he went after the leviathan, but everything else was fair game. He kept his machete sharp, kept his wits about him. It was penance, an unchanging eternity of killing other monsters like himself, and Gordon couldn’t have devised a better one himself.  
  
He stumbled on Dean Winchester once, pressing a silver knife against the throat of a werewolf. He’d waited to see if he’d have to take action, but Dean was flaying skin from the creature in bloody strips and raving about an angel. It was possible he’d gone completely insane. Most hunters did eventually.  
  
Gordon didn’t know how Dean had ended up in Purgatory, and he didn’t care. He and Dean were alike. Both warriors. Both cleansing this place of evil, one monster at a time. He had no quarrel with the elder Winchester. He moved on.

*

When Gordon wasn’t chasing monsters, he was setting traps. There wasn’t much that was edible in Purgatory, but Gordon excelled at trapping the things that were. Which is why he was barely surprised when one of his traps turned up Sam Winchester.  
  
“Little. Sammy. Winchester.” Gordon let his breath ghost against his captive’s ear, and he smiled at the resulting flinch. He’d killed Singer outright, put a knife through his gin-soaked heart. Sam wasn’t so simple, though.  
  
“You know, I never thought I’d get another chance,” he said, slowly circling. “Thought I blew it. But here we are again. It’s almost like destiny. Don’t you think?”  
  
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” the antichrist said. “I’m not what you think I am, Gordon. I’m trying to close hell, not open it. You’ve got to – ”  
  
He slammed his fist across Sam’s jaw, and Sam slumped forward, groaning.  
  
“You don’t fool me,” Gordon said, crouching down so he was level with Sam’s bloody face. “Just because I’m dead, doesn’t mean I don’t get the news. I know all about the apocalypse. Setting Lucifer free, opening the gate – everything.”  
  
“I put him back,” Sam mumbled. “I trapped him, I swear.”  
  
“Sure you did,” Gordon said soothingly. “Just like you were never working for him in the first place.” He punched Sam again, taking vicious satisfaction in the wet rattle of Sam’s breath.  
  
“Do you know what I felt when I heard that, Sam?” Another punch, and Sam’s cheekbone cracked beneath his knuckles.  
  
“I felt guilt.” A hard left hook. “Shame.” Another, dislocating Sam’s jaw. “Failure.”  
  
His knuckles were covered in blood, sore and spattered, and Gordon took a minute to suck absently at his skin, tasting the blood. He’d barely been a vampire long enough to feed, and the burst of human blood on his tongue was heady. Sam was coughing, arms jerking in their restraints.  
  
Gordon knelt down again and pulled his prisoner’s head up by a fistful of hair. Sam’s eyes were hazy, his face swelled and mangled. Gordon swiped another bit of blood from Sam’s mouth with his thumb and brought it to his own lips. His fangs were pushing through his gums, hungry and throbbing.  
  
“Sam,” he murmured. “This is fate, and you know it. I’m a monster; I’ve accepted it. Purgatory is my penance. Now you…you have to accept it, too. You were never meant to leave here. This is where you belong. Like me.”  
  
“Not…like you,” Sam managed. “Not…” Through the dazed pain in his eyes, there was defiance.  
  
Gordon dropped his head abruptly. “Penance, Sam. You’ll see.

*

The antichrist tasted sweet. Gordon enjoyed it – it was the only taste of human blood he was ever going to get. Sam didn’t beg, even when Gordon smeared dead blood across his tongue. He didn’t say a word until the change began, and even then, all he did was mewl for his brother. When it was over, when he was lying white and listless on the ground, new fangs sharp and gleaming the gray light, Gordon untied him.  
  
Sam Winchester’s first act as a vampire was to beat the living shit out of Gordon.  
  
Gordon laughed through the blood in his mouth, laughed when Sam broke all his ribs and tried to twist his head clean off his body. All the anger, all the violence in Sam Winchester could be turned to something else, and Gordon was responsible for the transformation.  
  
“Sam,” he gasped, reaching out a hand. “I understand. I know…”  
  
“Fuck you,” Sam snarled. “Fuck you, fuck…” And then he shuddered and was crying, sinking down against the nearest tree.  
  
Gordon could feel his bones mending themselves rapidly, dark magic and human blood piecing him back together. He dragged himself the few feet toward Sam.  
  
“Stay away, or I’ll kill you,” Sam said dully. “Again.”  
  
“It’s done, Sam. There’s no going back now. Killing me won’t change anything.”  
  
“Dean will find me.”  
  
“He’ll try. But even he can’t undo this. Besides.” He shook his head. “Look at you. Do you really think Dean will want you back on earth like this? You’re a monster, Sam. There’s only one choice now. Stay here, where you belong.”  
  
The antichrist swiped at his eyes and swallowed. “Dean will figure it out.”

*

Sam Winchester changed everything, just like Gordon always knew he would. It was common knowledge that John Winchester had been an obsessed drunk, but he had trained good soldiers. Sam could hit a moving target dead in the heart at a hundred paces, and sometimes he struck so fast the battle was over before Gordon realized it had begun. He had tried to end Gordon a couple times, but Gordon was older, smarter, and a hundred times more experienced. Sam usually ended up on his ass, fangs bared and eyes burning.   
  
Another vampire came looking for Sam not long after Gordon had turned him. Blue eyes, a lazy smirk, and a southern drawl. Said Dean Winchester had sent him. Hope flared to life in Sam’s eyes and burned just long enough for Gordon to cut off the interloper’s head. Sam burned and buried him with almost as much care as he’d buried Bobby Singer.  
  
Sam could go anywhere; Purgatory was his playground. If it had been Gordon, he would’ve killed the sonofabitch who turned him and set out on his own without hesitation. It showed how badly Sam Winchester needed saving that he stuck with Gordon, trailing sullenly behind.  
  
“Every kill you make,” Gordon told him. “Every evil thing you put down – that cleanses you. You’re doing good here, Sam.”  
  
They fucked sometimes. Gordon had never had much need for sex when he was human, but something about the pained twist of Sam’s mouth could have his dick heavy and aching in seconds. Sam hated it, hated him, and that was just a bonus.  
  
There were lots of ways to do penance.

*

He should have known the Winchesters couldn’t leave well enough alone. Two weeks into Sam Winchester’s redemption, Gordon felt a prickle of warning on the back of his neck. His blood heated, human survival and his darker vampire’s instincts warring inside him. It wasn’t some newly-arrived monster following them, frightened and clumsy with hunger. It was much more deadly than that.  
  
“Feel that?” he asked Sam. Sam’s head cocked, his eyes cool and narrowed.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Get ready then.”  
  
It wasn’t that he trusted Sam to watch his back – he wasn’t that stupid. But a predator was less likely to attack two vampires traveling together. The more united they seemed to the rest of the beasties in Purgatory, the less vulnerable they were.  
  
Except it wasn’t a beast at all. Gordon smelled him a second later – his human stench would attract other predators from every corner.  
  
“I know you’re there, Dean,” he said evenly, and Dean Winchester stepped out from behind a tree.  
  
Sam went rigid. Gordon looked at him, and his face was even whiter than usual, strained and colorless.  
  
“You’re too late,” he said to Dean. “It’s over.”  
  
“You’re like a cockroach,” Dean said, mouth curled into a sneer. “No matter how many times we get rid of you, you just keep coming back.”  
  
“Not a cockroach. Just a hunter trying to do the right thing.”  
  
“You keep thinking that. Sammy, let’s go. We’re getting out of here.”  
  
Sam didn’t move, and Gordon smiled.  
  
“See? What did I tell you?”  
  
Dean looked sharply at Sam. Sam’s mouth was trembling, but he took a step back, toward Gordon.  
  
“I can’t, Dean. It’s too late. He turned me.”  
  
“I don’t give a shit,” Dean bit out. “Get over here – we’re going.”  
  
“You don’t understand. Bobby…Benny…. It’s over. I failed the trials.”  
  
“I know, okay? Doesn’t change anything.”  
  
“Maybe you should listen to Sammy,” Gordon said, taking a step forward. “Seems he’s finally got his head on straight.”  
  
Dean turned on him, snarling. Gordon managed to twist the blade out of his hand a second before Sam crashed into him like a hurricane. His slammed into the packed dirt, and everything went fuzzy for a long time.  
  
When his vision cleared, Dean had Sam up against a tree, his fists twisted in Sam’s filthy shirt. Sam’s shoulders were slumped, face blank.  
  
“Come on, man,” Dean was pleading. “You can’t stay here. Gordon’s nuts – you know that. Whatever he’s been telling you – ”  
  
“He’s right. I deserve this.”  
  
“Stop it,” Dean yelled, giving him a shake. “I’m not leaving you here. You haven’t drunk human blood yet, and we have the asshole that turned you. We’re changing you back, and then we’re going home.”  
  
Gordon coughed, and he tasted blood. He levered himself to all fours.  
  
“Don’t listen to him,” he managed, and Sam looked over at him, eyes despairing. “That’s exactly what I told my sister before I cut off her – ”  
  
He didn’t even see Dean move. He heard the whistle of a blade through air and felt pain shoot down his spine. His arms went out from under him and then darkness slid in.  
  
His last thought was that he’d have to move faster next time one of the Winchesters tried to cut off his head.


End file.
